The glyph burned bright behind Haraza's eyes.
When the vision faded, Lyssira caught him before he collapsed.( "That was the first key," she whispered. "There are four more, but we're out of time.")
From far above, the earth trembled.
Not thunder.
Footsteps.
Distant, heavy, rhythmic.
Drums made of bone and iron.
Haraza steadied himself. ("What is it?")
("The Ironthread Cult," Lyssira hissed. "Fanatics. They worship the broken parts of the Loom. They'll kill to keep this Vault sealed.")
The wrench pulsed in Haraza's hand, shaping itself into a blunt-hafted hammer. ("Then we don't run.")
("We can't win, not here. But we can warn someone.")
She led him up, fast and silent.
As they emerged back into the ruins, they saw them:
Dozens—no, hundreds—marching through Karthwyn.
At their front: a masked figure in crimson robes.
He raised a spear.
And pointed directly at Haraza.
Lyssira ran. Haraza followed, ducking beneath broken archways and leaping fallen pillars as arrows and glyphs shattered stone around them.
("Can't we fight?") he shouted.
("No time! There's a village—Tarn's Hollow—just a day's march east. If the Cult's mobilizing, they'll purge it for harboring Loom-sensitive bloodlines.")
("But if we run, we lose the Vault!")
("We lose everything if we die now!")
They skidded down a cliffside path and into the shadow of the forest. Behind them, the ruins lit with firelight and war-songs.
Haraza clenched his fists.("Then we come back.")
("Yes," Lyssira said. "But only when you're ready.")
They reached the village by dusk.
It was small—stone homes, moss-grown roofs, fields of luminous grain. But people here watched the sky. They listened to the wind. They knew the Rift.
And they welcomed Haraza like he belonged.
But the next morning—
Smoke.
Ironthread riders.
No time to evacuate.
Haraza stood on the village green, wrench-turned-spear in hand.
("You said I'd have to choose,") he said to Lyssira.
She nodded.("Vault or people.")
("I choose them.")
She didn't argue.
Instead, she drew her blade.
Together, they stood before the riders.
The first rider charged.
Haraza's spear caught the wind—then became it.
He moved faster than thought, his instincts wrapped in the breath of the Loom itself. Sparks danced across his vision. Time slowed.
He saw every enemy. Every path. Every thread.
He fought like a man born to it—and forged beyond it.
Villagers rallied behind them. Lyssira moved like rain—fluid, relentless, untouchable. Together, they became something more than defenders.
They became symbols.
The battle was chaos—until a great roar silenced it all.
The crimson-robed cultist stepped into the fray.
Face still masked.
But the voice that came from beneath the veil—
("Haraza Genso. You belong to the Rift. Return to it.")
Haraza gritted his teeth.( "No.")
The cultist drew a blade that bent the light around it.
And charged.
Their blades met—and the world split.
For a moment, Haraza was the Rift.
He saw through a thousand versions of himself—mechanic, hero, villain, martyr, king.
He saw the Vault, locked in time.
He saw the Tetherless.
And he saw one final image—
Himself.
Standing on the edge of the world.
Forging a new Loom.
Then—he returned.
And the cultist's blade shattered.
Light exploded.
The battlefield went silent.
The Ironthread fled.
And Tarn's Hollow still stood.
They buried the fallen.
Villagers lit lanterns shaped like tears and let them drift into the sky.
Haraza stood alone, looking at the stars. The wrench was quiet now. But he knew it would speak again.
Lyssira joined him.
("You broke an Ironthread blade," she said. "That should be impossible.")
("I've done a lot of things that should be impossible.")
She smiled faintly. ("You're becoming what this world feared. And hoped.")
He looked out toward the horizon, where the ruins of Karthwyn still waited.
-"Then let's see what I become next."-